The Song of the Hero
by Stella Smallburrow
Summary: What happened in the Cracks of Doom? What were the feelings of the main character in that very moment? A journey into Frodo's mind, for those willing to take it. Rated M because it's a dark subject, nothing more.


**The Song of the Hero**

"_For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom"_

_(The minstrel of Gondor – The Return of the King)_

Frodo left the pen on the desk and leaned back on his chair, looking at the round window of his study. There was a bee dancing over the newly blossomed flowers of the windowsill. It hovered above each one of them, danced for a bit, as if only for the pleasure of it, in the ray of sunlight that crossed the window and bathed the room in golden radiance, and then finally went away buzzing its way up to the roof. A light warm breeze caressed the white curtains and reached for Frodo's face, smelling of flowers, of rain and spring, smelling of Life.

Frodo sighed as he raised his right hand to rub at his brow. The feeling of only four fingertips where there might have been five made him stop his rubbing and stare at his own fingers blankly.

"How am I supposed to record all this?"

* * *

The mighty voice of Rauros was getting fainter and more distant with each step they were taking away from the River. Soon it would be nothing but a memory, a fleeting vision of what could have been, had he decided otherwise, a path closed to him even before he had the chance to consider it.

Frodo adjusted his pack on his shoulders. He had found a narrow, faint path that seemed to climb a good deal towards the black mountains ahead, and he counted on following it while he could.

"It seems that nothing can grow up there." Sam's voice startled him, though the young gardener had spoken in a soft whisper. "The higher we go, the less weeds there are, have you noticed it, Mr. Frodo?"

"Yes," Frodo said, without turning his eyes from the mountains. "I have noticed that now there are no trees to give us some shelter from unfriendly eyes."

Sam went silent for a moment, considering this.

"Then, it would be good to climb a little faster, don't you think, sir? It wouldn't do if we are discovered here by that Gollum or something worse, if you take my meaning."

"I do," said Frodo, suppressing a shudder. "Let's go a little faster then, while we can. Those mountains seem very difficult to climb"

Sam grunted in distaste but said nothing.

Frodo squared his shoulders and raised his head, quickening his pace. He would have loved to be able to sit down for a minute and take in the view of the River and the lake and the island of Tol Brandir that he knew was just behind his back. But he simply could not look back.

He was leaving everything behind. His cousins, his two best friends, the two people that he loved most in the world apart from Bilbo, and who had followed him all the way to Amon Hen and now he was abandoning them miserably. Along with Aragorn, who was very dear to him, and Legolas, and Gimli, and Minas Tirith and the possibility of protection and rest that they hoped to find there.

But no, this was his fear speaking. The Council had designated him, Frodo of the Shire, for this task. They knew that Men were weak, and though he hadn't wanted to believe it, seeing Boromir surrendering to the lust of the Ring had shown for certain that all his little hopes of going to Minas Tirith and counting on the support of Men were in vain.

And he had hoped, oh yes. Men were tall and strong and seemed skilled for the things of the war. Minas Tirith had seemed a very suitable option. He had hoped to find there some comfort, help or at least, some kind of advice. Now all his hopes were crushed. Now he had no hope at all; he knew that he had been fooling himself all the way from Rivendell because he did not want to see that he was absolutely and utterly alone in this. And this thought terrified him. If Men, with all their strength and courage, couldn't help him in his Task, what could he, a little Hobbit from the peaceful Shire, possibly do? It was hopeless. It would be only a matter of time before orcs or "something worse", as Sam had put it, discovered him and killed him and everything would have been in vain. And Frodo was afraid; afraid of failing, afraid of being killed, afraid of dying…but who was not afraid of Death?

But he had an errand, and he had to do it, even if he was walking to his own death.

He had no hope at all. No hope of surviving, no hope of fulfilling the Quest…

But he would do his best.

He was the one who bore the Ring.

He would have to find a way…alone.

* * *

Frodo blinked at the pale phantom that he supposed was the Sun, hovering above their heads. Grey clouds covered the sky, so dense as if they intended to suffocate him under their weight.

Weight…

Such a weight!

The weight of the Ring was becoming almost unbearable. His shoulders and his neck ached and sometimes he had the feeling that his back would never look straight again. Not that it really mattered, he thought bitterly.

The Mountain grew nearer and higher with every step. He had no idea how they had escaped death so far, but there was one thing that he knew for sure: there would not be a chance at the Mountain. What chance could there be at the very heart of Sauron's power?

But he was not afraid, not anymore. He even waited for his death as an end to all this torment.

The Ring's weight was only the least of it, as well as hunger, thirst and exhaustion. The Ring's visions were not that tormenting, either. He was used to Its promises of power and domination, he had lived with them for so long that he paid them no heed anymore. He knew all those promises were vain and he could shut them up with his common sense, which kept telling him that he was only a hobbit and…who was he to even think of gaining so much power? Over whom? At what cost? It was ridiculous, all of it. After entering Mordor, he had even stopped thinking about all those promises and the visions they brought to him. Now he didn't notice them anymore.

No. It was more than all that. It was the need that was tormenting him and consuming all his energy and strength. The Ring had not a voice of Its own and It wasn't enchanting him and luring him to Its will. It was not talking to his mind. It was worse still.

It was a _need_, a desire of his body to just put It on and just feel It on his finger. Sometimes, his hands moved of their own volition to his chest to take It. His body was craving for that touch of smooth gold on his finger, for that feeling of warmth and cold at the same time on his skin. His body wished to become invisible, to feel invisible and escape thus from that Eye, always looking at him and terrifying him with that fixed stare. His body wanted, craved, desired this more than anything. It had become an obsession, he couldn't think about nothing else, and he couldn't see anything else. Each waking moment was a battle with his own self, a struggle within his mind between that part of himself that felt the Need and his own force of will that said no. And he was beginning to sense that his will wouldn't last much longer.

It was unbearable.

He would have gladly laid himself down on the ground to die long ago if it would not have been…

He had been chosen. He couldn't think about himself or his own wishes before fulfilling the Task or dying in the process. It was his responsibility. Gandalf, Elrond, the Council…they had put their trust in him.

And he could not pass it to another.

All he could do was to endure the craving and the Need as far as his will lasted, try to hold on to the end and then…Then he could allow himself to surrender…Then he could finally find rest …Forever…

The brown curly head of Samwise Gamgee covered the sky just above his eyes and peered at his face with concern.

"Well, Mr. Frodo," said Sam. "I've been having a look round and thinking a bit. There's nothing on the roads, and we'd best be getting away while there's a chance. Can you manage it?"

Sam. Frodo felt sorry for his gardener, for dragging him on this cursed journey in the first place and for leaving him alone…in the end. He couldn't tell how grateful he was to Sam for being there, for taking care of him and for reminding him of the Shire, because Sam carried the Shire with him, in his humble, simple and honest way of thinking, in his plain way of speaking. Frodo knew that if it hadn't been for Sam, he would have lost himself within his own tortured mind long ago.

Maybe Sam could find a way to survive, maybe there still was hope for him, although Frodo could not see it. But Sam could. Sam had never lost hope.

Frodo took a deep breath. All he had to do was to endure just a little more, just one more day.

He put both hands on the ground, wanting to feel it, to feel other things apart from emptiness and pain, to give his hands something to hold and feel other than that Thing. And with an effort, he got up.

"I can manage it," said Frodo. "I must."

* * *

Here at last. He can hardly believe it. Here. At the very edge of the Cracks of Doom.

He feels the unbearable heat of the lava on his skin, the sting of the fumes in his eyes, the thunder of the Mountain in his ears, and the taste of salt and dirt in his mouth. He senses it all, but he feels numb, as if living inside a dream.

He is here and he has the One Ring in his hand.

So this is the end – his end, their end. He knows he can't part with It, has known it since… forever, it seems. Perhaps since that first time he tried to toss It in the fire at Bag End and his own hand, of its own accord, instead betrayed him and put It in his pocket.

The Ring is expending Its last effort. He sees himself as a prince, a mighty lord who reigns wisely among hobbits, and Men are at his service and the earth is green again and everything is full of flowers and music and songs.

He would smile if he could. This vision is none too different to all the previous ones and it doesn't tempt him. On the contrary, all he feels is disgust.

All he wants to do is rest. And all he has to do to rest is to take one more step. But…

He wants to feel It just one more time before the end, feel It in his hand as he has felt It all these years, as a comforting presence, as a treasure, almost like a well-known friend.

He is going to surrender to this Need, to allow It to claim him. He is going to feel It on his finger. One last time. And then they will rest. Forever.

Together.

Suddenly, the thought makes him feel more alive and more set than ever in the last few days. He feels very much aware of each one of his movements as he takes the Ring from Its chain and places It purposefully over the end of his third finger. He puts all his strength and all his self in his words, knowing they are probably the last ones he will say, and he is delighted to hear his own voice ring with power throughout the cavern as he makes his claim and seals his own destiny.

It's his now. It has tortured him, but It has been his all along. Only he could not say it, he could not afford to admit it even to himself. But he knew all along. They both knew.

Now he has nothing to lose… now he can say it.

"I have come. But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"

It is _his_.

And they are never going to part.

The feeling of Its perfect smooth surface on his finger is like an ecstasy, like fire and ice at the same time. After so long, so much craving, having this at last is almost more than he can take. It's like an orgasm, an overwhelming pleasure.

He knows he should be taking that last step, casting himself to the fire as he had promised himself…Surrender to Its will, let It have him, and then take his revenge and destroy It… He should be…But he just wants to enjoy the sensation for a second…one more second…

* * *

"And I even didn't feel Gollum's bite." Frodo looked at his missing finger. "And you were ripped from me so abruptly that I almost lost consciousness."

He sighed, looked at the open window. Birds were chirping outside under the sunlight and the curtains were flapping in the breeze.

"I lost you and I almost didn't feel it. And if at least I would have died…" He flexed his fingers, reached for the pen. "Now, all I have left is the craving…"

Forever craving. Never having.

What kind of disgraceful person was he who knew the evil of that Thing and still desired It? How was he ever going to get rid of that shame? How was he ever going to be able to forgive himself for all of it?

He dipped the pen in the inkwell and, as a sort of redemption –what else could he do, now?- started to write:

"_Mount Doom"_

_END_


End file.
